


say it, savor it

by hoegeta



Series: reasons why I'm going to hell [10]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Kitchen Sex, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Shameless Smut, and waitress tifa, but only a smidgen, chef cloud strife, someone take my laptop away from me all i do is write filth, there is no god anymore, whos also very sexy, whos very sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28374141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoegeta/pseuds/hoegeta
Summary: Chef Cloud Strife may run a world-renowned three-star restaurant, but his favorite meal will always be her.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Series: reasons why I'm going to hell [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842454
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	say it, savor it

**Author's Note:**

> hello pls have some more filth
> 
> title is taken from stray kids’ god’s menu because im fucking losing it over their chef outfits like g o d why is that so hot
> 
> cloud is wearing specifically [this](https://www.nautiljon.com/images/clip/02/38/god_s_menu_hyun_jin_fancam_comeback_stage_music_core_20_06_2020_165983.jpg?0) [outfit](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1f/58/f3/1f58f3c2221bc30eb5a8bce82be176d4.jpg)
> 
> (also [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michelin_Guide) is what michelin stars mean if anyone doesn’t know)

Tifa is exhausted.

She feels it down to the very center of her being, the fatigue aching through the marrow of her bones, and her joints are crying out, her feet sore from her heels. She doesn’t think she’s even had a chance to breathe properly during her entire shift. The restaurant is always busy, but on Saturday evenings, it’s particularly severe, locals and travelers alike tumbling in for one of Strife’s famous meals. Of course they do. His food is like bursts of heaven on anyone’s palate, and she really doesn’t know how he’s able to do it. He has three Michelin stars for a reason, and even Midgar Magazine featured him on their front cover, and people from all around the world began coming in, stars and wonder painted into their eyes.

Chef Strife deserves it, of course. His hands are magic.

The hours crawl by, creeping into the next day’s morning, and Tifa sighs, rubbing at the nape of her neck with her palm. She’s tired, deathly so, her bed at home calling out to her, each and every one of her cells dying to be swathed in her sheets. Just a few more minutes, just a few more tables to clean, just a few more chairs to flip, and she’ll be home. Waiting on dumb customers all day really does take the wind out of her.

She wanders into the kitchen, the heat of it blasting her, as if she’s walked into a volcano. Her vision is blurred in gray, gray walls and countertops and appliances, one figure in black taking up her entire attention. The assistant chefs have all gone home.

Chef Strife stands at his stove, one hand woven around the handle of his frying pan. He throws some of the vegetables into the air, and they land back in the pan, not a single one fallen or going stray,

“Hi, Chef.”

“Lockhart,” he greets. “Come here. Try this.”

Tifa waddles over to him, trying her best to hold back the wince that comes over her body. God, her feet are _killing_ her.

Chef Strife takes a wooden spoon, scoops some of the vegetables onto it, and Tifa doesn’t even ask, doesn’t care to, takes the spoon into her mouth when he holds it up and in front of her, his eyes stuck to her, glued, as if it’ll hurt to look away.

She doesn’t care what it is, but it’s _good_. Bursts onto her tongue, and she chews thoughtfully, doesn’t want it to end. She swallows it, and she isn’t really hungry, but she wants more, only because it’s him, and it was made by his hand. 

“ _God_ , that’s good,” she groans out. “I don’t even know what it is, but I want more.”

Chef Strife gives a snort of a laugh, a small chuckle that rumbles through her bones. He picks up another bite for her, feeds her, and she takes it, lets the flavors play on her tongue, the sweetness and then the heat hitting her, steaming through her nose. Every day he reminds her why his cuisine is world-renowned.

“You like it?” he asks, and she nods happily, leaning over to look into the pan. Would he allow her to box up the rest of it and take it home? “I’m trying something out. I don’t like it much.”

“Of course,” she says, laughs a bit breathlessly. He’s ever the harsh critic, especially when it comes to his own cooking. “What do you even like?”

With the tips of his fingers, he reaches into the pan, picks up a stray carrot. And he holds it in front of Tifa’s lips.

His expression is neutral when he speaks.

“You.”

Tifa’s breath hitches in her throat.

“Don’t _s_ _ay_ that.”

She takes in the carrot, chews it and swallows it, but her lips linger for too long, wrapping around his fingers. She takes his hand into hers, and one by one, she licks off his fingers, starting at the tips, suckling on them until his eyes glaze over, dark and hot in an unfocused haze. And Tifa holds his stare, looks at him through her lashes, doesn’t dare break the contact. She likes his eyes, the coldest blue, like empty, summer skies swallowing up her world. She likes his uniform, a loose-fit shirt draped over his torso, tucked into an apron that falls to his knees. 

She especially likes his pants, molded nicely to his form, and there’s something in the front of them, a need, a desire, growing harder and harder by the second.

Yes. _Yes_.

Tifa feels it within her as well. The need, bubbling through her, licking at her veins until she’s flooded in it. Her toes curl in her shoes.

Maybe she isn’t as tired anymore.

He pulls his fingers, now wet with her spit, from her mouth, and that same hand goes to curl around the back of her neck. He brings her in for a kiss that sears at all of her nerves, drives her a bit manic, her brain swimming in her skull. His tongue breaks the seam of her lips, and he goes in, roams and roams, tastes her until she’s quivering against him, her body pliant against the eager swipe of his hand.

When he pulls back, she’s dizzy, heaving for breath, heat tickling the tips of her ears. She feels like she’s going to erupt.

“You’re my favorite meal.”

She wants to laugh, maybe recoil in embarrassment. But she hates the way those words settle deep into her core, adding to the wetness gathered within her panties. God, she hates him and his cold eyes, his talented hands, his fucking apron.

“You’re _so_ corny.”

He pulls her in again, his teeth gnawing at her lip, and he moves into her, pushing her until she’s fumbling and settling onto the counter behind her. He comes to stand between her spread legs, his hands grabbing at any part of her they can reach, her hips and then her thighs, pulling her even closer into him.

His vegetables have fled his mind. It’s a fleeting thought to Tifa, because now, she feels the bulge of his erection, hard against the wet fabric of her panties. And she’s _very_ distracted. God. _God_.

It's fine. It's not like he'll burn the restaurant down, or something.

“You can’t serve me on the menu though,” she says, gripping his shirt as he dives down, dropping kisses along the stretched column of her neck. 

“No,” he says, and he suckles a mark into her shoulder that makes her gasp. “Only I can have you.”

And then he’s on his knees, his fingertips diving beneath her skirt. It’s tight, molded to her form, and she hurriedly rolls it out of the way, until it’s bunched around her hips. She lifts herself up a bit as he knocks her shoes away and goes for her stockings and panties, bringing them both down and off with a quick, impatient flick of his arm.

He’s hungry, maybe. The thought of it makes her whimper, and she spreads her legs even further for him. He holds her thighs open, stops to stare, and it’s mortifying, how wet she’s gotten for him when he’s barely even done anything to her. 

“Stop staring,” she mumbles behind her hand. “It’s embarrassing."

He looks up at her, his gaze unwavering.

“Every good chef admires his meal.”

“You’re _so_ annoying.”

His chuckle rattles down her spine, pools into her core. He starts with his fingers, the cold tips of them prodding at her lower lips, spreading them wide apart until she feels her arousal seep out of her. She fidgets, moving further into him, leaning her palms behind her on the counter.

“I can’t help but think about how unsanitary this is.”

His scowl is etched deeply into his mouth.

“It’s my kitchen. I can do what I want.”

Tifa frowns. “I don’t think it works thatー”

The words crumble and die in her throat, because Chef Strife’s mouth is on her, and _god_ , she can’t bear to focus on anything else. The fan of his breath is hot, coils through her like she’s been drenched in lava, and she curls her fingers into his hair, brings him closer by the little clip that holds his bangs up. He teases her, his tongue dipping into her entrance, tasting her, his lips coming to suckle at her folds. And her patience goes as thin as a thread, her clit hard and aching and begging for his touch.

“Chef,” she pants, her toes curling against his shoulder. “ _Please._ ”

He pulls back a bit, the lower half of his face wet in her arousal.

“I like to savor my meals. It’s what makes me a good chef.”

Tifa groans, pulling incessantly at the wild, pale yellow tangle of his hair.

“Shut _up._ You’re _so_ annoying.”

“But you love me,” he says, and he drops the tiniest, quickest of kisses onto her clit, but it’s enough to make her jolt, to make her go rigid. All she wants is him, more of him, more of his mouth, eating at her as if she’s starved.

His mouth is magic as well, just like his hands.

“I do,” she says, and she pushes his head back into her, buries him between her legs. “Now, _please_ suck on my clit.”

His chuckle rattles through her.

“So needy, Lockhart.”

Yeah. She is. So what? She likes being his favorite meal.

Chef Strife obliges her, finally gives her what she wants, and the relief swims all through her veins, tingling at the tips of her fingers, the pleasure building, rising, piling atop the pressure in her core. He sucks on her clit just like she asked, spreads her wide and darts his tongue out to lick at her, soft circles that make her head spin. And then he’s sucking again, and the noises, the wetness of his spit on her, the way his eyes look up at her, the blue of them holding her hostage, she can’t bear it, feels something coming, feels every lick, every suck throw her further and further away from her control.

“Cloud,” she gasps desperately, grinding hips into his mouth as she pulls at his clipped hair, liking the way her clit rubs against the rough flat of his tongue. “Cloud, oh my god, _fuck_ —“

“You taste so good, Tifa,” he groans against her, holding her thighs firmly, pulling her even closer into him. 

“Thーthat’s a fantastic compliment coming from a chef.”

He pulls away for a second, and instantly, she misses him.

“Three-star chef, mind you.”

“Yes,” she says, sings the word. “I know. Now, hurry and make me come, Chef."

He obeys, immediately coming back to take her clit into his mouth again. And it takes no time at all for the familiar pull to come over her nerves, her orgasm crashing over her until she’s shuddering, choking on his name, rubbing herself against him to drag out the bliss as long as it’ll go. Her world falls to pieces around her, and when it comes back, she’s heaving, seeing stars, trying to get back to the surface, trying to remember who she is.

Tifa. Right. She’s a waitress, and her head chef and boyfriend is currently eating her out on his kitchen counter. Yes.

A peculiar kind of smell hits her nose, smoke laying thickly over her senses, but she doesn’t register it, because Cloud is still licking at her clit, and she tries to fold away from him, overwhelmed with the sensitivity, but he won’t let her.

“Cloud,” she pants, her legs trembling violently with each flick of his tongue. “Cloud, I can’t—“

“You can,” he says, looks up at her, her heart stuttering in her throat. “Come for me again. All over my mouth.”

He’s relentless, holds her securely in place, laps at her clit until it’s hard again, and she likes the pain just as much as the pleasure. Tifa’s head falls back, and she moans his name as if she knows nothing more, her world melting and melting until it’s only the feeling of his tongue on her, hot and wet and messy. And he wrenches another orgasm out of her, her thighs closing around his ears as she holds onto his hair for dear life. The pressure falls apart within her, strokes lovingly at each of her trillion nerves, and Tifa can’t function, her body shutting down, her lungs aching for breath.

“Oh my god,” she groans, falling back onto the countertop, the energy drained from her body, liking the little, open-mouthed kisses he peppers onto her inner thighs. “Oh my _god_.”

And he’s _crazy_ , because he comes right back up to her clit.

“ _No_ ,” she heaves. “Cloud, I can’t—“

“I know you can,” he says. “You like it. I know you do.”

He’s right. She loves it. The sensitivity, the pain, the way her legs shake around him. She likes it, but she almost can’t bear it, how he laps at her, his arms coming over her thighs to keep her in place. And Tifa lies back, succumbs to it, lets the pleasure take complete control of her body. He sucks on her clit, then licks all around it, just the way she likes, and she feels herself dripping, feels her wetness coat his face, likes the noises, likes the lewdness of doing bad things with him on his kitchen counter.

He’s the chef. He can do what he wants, after all.

Tifa comes again, her body reaching another limit only at his tongue’s behest. And this one is the longest, takes the wind out of her, washes everything away as her body falls completely apart against his mouth. And finally, _finally_ , he pulls away, allows her to catch her breath and gather her wits. Her brain comes back to her, and she lies on the counter, staring up at the ceiling lights, her limbs heavy like lead. When he pulls her up for a kiss, she’s like putty in his hold.

She likes tasting herself on his lips.

“You’re crazy,” she says into his mouth, kisses him harder, rougher, holding him by his neck. “God. _Fuck_.”

“But you love it.”

And he’s right. And she hates how sure of himself he is, how confident, how a smirk lingers at the corner of his mouth. She kisses it, laps at his lips and the remains of her arousal. She’s so wet she feels it, sticky between her thighs.

Mostly, she hates how crazy he makes her.

“I do. I love you.”

He presses himself closer to her, and she shudders, feeling the bulge in his pants rubbing against her mound. She’s had three orgasms, and she’s so sensitive she could cry, but she also thinks she’ll cry if he doesn’t sink his cock into her right at this moment.

“How do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, his thumb gingerly stroking the curve of her cheekbone, the words a burst of hot, rumbling husk in her ear, and she trembles with it, her legs coming apart for him again.

“Hard,” she says. “Really hard. Right on this counter.”

He gives her a wide, pleased grin. 

“As you wish.”

His hands go for his apron first, but Tifa quickly wraps her fingers around his wrist, halting him.

“No,” she says. “The apron stays on.”

He’s surprised, amused maybe, and it’s written between the lines of his expression. But he obliges, his hands going for his belt instead.

“You’re weird.”

“Shut up!” she yelps. “You’re the one fucking me on your counter!”

His laugh is pleasant, rolls down her spine in waves, but she’s annoyed. She likes the apron. So what? He’s a chef. He should keep it on.

“You’re right,” he says, and she’s instantly distracted by his cock, free of his pants and in his hold. He’s hard, painfully so, the veins protruding, the slit at the head leaking. And Tifa whimpers, something twinging, something tightening inside her. She likes his tongue, nearly passed out from all the orgasms it gave her. But _this_. This is her favorite part. _This_ is the most magical.

She nearly cries in relief when he finally, _finally_ slides into her, fills her so well she goes dizzy. She’s horribly wet, and her walls welcome him openly, but he always feels _so nice_ , stretching her out, hitting the deepest parts of her. He’s buried to the hilt, and he leans his palms onto the counter, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he tries to keep in control. She likes this, seeing him coming to pieces inside the sheath of her body, likes the color painted on the tops of his cheeks, the hair that falls out of his clip and drapes over his forehead. She gets close, as close to him as she can, wraps her arms around his neck as he begins to move, thrusts in and out of her at a pace that has her choking on her moans.

She nuzzles her nose into his neck, breathes in deep, likes the scent of him, the minty musk of the cologne that still lingers, the spices he used in his food all day, the burning smoke of fire.

Wait. Fire?

Tifa looks to the side, at the stove a few feet away. And the vegetables he’d been sautéing before she came in are now...completely submerged in black smoke.

She thought she smelled smoke before. Of course, coming all over his mouth was far more important to her at the time.

“Cloud,” she calls urgently, patting him on his shoulder, trying to push him away, but he’s lost himself inside her. “Cloud, _Cloud_ , oh my god, _they’re burning_.”

She finally has his attention.

“What?

The vegetables are now fully consumed in flames.

“Fire!” she shrieks. The alarm blares loudly, booms through her sternum, and he jumps away from her, cursing madly under his breath, scrambles across the room towards a closet. Tifa lingers, searches through the cabinets for any pot big enough to smother the flames, wailing in panic as she does. “You didn’t fucking turn off the stove before you started fucking me?!”

“I forgot!”

Some three-star chef he is.

He runs back to her with the fire extinguisher, puts out the flames, and when the alarm turns off, Tifa feels like she can breathe again, the chaos subsiding in her brain.

They nearly did burn the fucking restaurant down.

“What happened?!”

The door to the kitchen swings open, and Aerith and Yuffie come bumbling in. Cloud drops the extinguisher, turns away very quickly, because his fucking cock is still out of his pants. Tifa awkwardly stands in front of him, tries to shield him from her fellow waitresses, all while trying to fix her fucking skirt.

She hates this. They were just getting to the best part, and she wanted to take those fucking vegetables home.

“Uh, nothing,” she says, her throat feeling hoarse. “Just had a little accident. Everything’s fine!”

Aerith’s expression is coiled in concern. Yuffie looks very confused.

Cloud, now decent, turns back around, clears his throat.

“You two are still here?”

And Aerith and Yuffie’s gazes both drop, fall onto something on the floor. Tifa follows their eyes, and oh. _Oh_.

Her shoes, stockings, and _panties_. Scattered on the floor.

“Ew!” Yuffie screams. “You guys were fucking in the kitchen?! That is _so_ unsanitary!”

Aerith snickers behind her palm. Chef Strife lets out a garbled noise, his face burning red like a tomato.

“We were gonna sanitize afterwards!”

Tifa crosses her arms, biting back the laugh that wants to bubble out of her mouth.

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t burn down your own restaurant, Mister Three-Stars.”

Cloud glares at her.

“Thin ice, Lockhart.”

Tifa doesn’t hold back anymore, breaks into a loud, hollering laugh. Aerith and Yuffie holler along with her.

“Don’t you two have somewhere to be?” Chef Strife bites out. Aerith and Yuffie don’t stop laughing even as they walk out, and when they’re gone, he gives Tifa a disgruntled frown. He looks very much like a toddler who got scolded for getting into the cookie jar. “I’ll go get the fucking sanitizer.”

Before he can turn away, Tifa grabs him by the hand, dips in close to him until her lips are brushing the shell of his ear.

“When we go home,” she whispers, biting at the lobe and the silver stud pierced through it, “I wanna have my favorite meal too.”

She can hear his breath stagger in his throat. And then, he runs towards the back closet like his life depends on it. Tifa giggles as he goes.

He’s a fucking imbecile, but she loves him for it.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Author's Note:**

> be honest with me are yall tired of my writing yet?? bc i am LMAO i feel like i use the same fuckin phrases over and over T^T anyways thanks for reading akjksjks <3


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